


Perfect Tense

by Taamar



Category: Torchwood
Genre: 11th Doctor, Gen, Grammatical wankery, Young Ianto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5359769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taamar/pseuds/Taamar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When budding criminal Ianto Jones attempts to pickpocket an odd gentleman with a red bow tie, he gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Tense

**Author's Note:**

> They didn't give us much background for Ianto, did they? On the bright side, that means endless opportunities to make shit up. Onward!

Ianto Jones is hungry. This isn’t unusual or unexpected; he’s at an age, seventeen, when boys are voracious pits of appetite. In his case, however, it’s even less surprising. It’s coming up half six in the evening, and he hasn’t eaten since the night before, when he’d done a spot of cleaning  at a small restaurant in exchange for a meal and a bit of cash. It’s something he does whenever he can, but most establishments are wary of hiring a kid with no identification or address, even if it’s only for a single shift. And Ianto, to his irritation and dismay, looks even younger than his age. For all they know, he could be a runaway and a criminal.

They’re not far wrong.  While he works honestly when he can, Ianto’s not averse to a bit of petty theft when necessary; mostly helping himself to a convenient pocket or lifting a small item at Tesco. He’d been caught a few times before he learned the trick of it, but for once his youthful, innocent appearance had been an asset. He’d been convicted only the one time and not caught since, thanks to the tips he’d picked up while being held. Tonight, though, Ianto needs cash. What he made last night  _finally_ allowed him to buy the new pair of boots he’d been needing for weeks. He suspects he’s got a bit more growth to go, and is glad the denims he nicked from Debenhams in a pique of karmic retribution are a bit long in the hem, and at least he’s not going to get any bigger in the waist, thanks to his lifestyle.

Ianto has been living in the streets of Cardiff for a year, ever since his father died and left him and his sister with nothing but a stack of debts. He left Rhiannon on the estate in Newport and struck out on his own. He could go back to her, he supposes, ask for help, or at least a place to stay, but she’s got the baby, and with her boyfriend- or maybe husband now, he’s not sure- not working, he suspects they haven’t got the resources to spare, and he refuses to be a burden. He calls every so often, makes up lies about a job, a flat, and a girlfriend. He’s not sure Rhiannon believes him, but at least she’s willing to pretend. It’s easier that way. He can’t tell her that he’s sleeping in the supply closet of an old warehouse any more than she can admit that she had to borrow money from Johnny’s parents to bury their father.

So, in need of money, he looks to a bit of pickpocketing on Roald Dahl Plass. Problem is, the air has turned chill, and pockets are all but inaccessible under the longer coats people are wearing. Pocketbooks are an option, but women keep so much rubbish in them that it’s hard to get a clean lift, and a snatch-and-run would make him too obvious. He scans the crowd hopefully. Sure, he could try for a cleaning gig, but while that would feed him, the cash is meager and he’ll be needing a coat soon. The heavy woolen jumper- the only thing of his father’s he kept- will only get him so far into winter before he needs something heavier, and there’s a fair chance he’ll outgrow it, anyway.

Some of the other boys in the warehouse have suggested that he join them in the park in the evenings. They say it’s easy money, and that with his looks he should get plenty of business, but even now he’s not hungry enough to make sucking off a stranger appealing. So, pockets it is.

After a time, and with a rumbling belly, Ianto spots the perfect target. The man wears no overcoat and has the dreamy, eclectic look of a university professor. He’s wearing a  _bowtie_ , for god’s sake! No one wears bowties, though Ianto has to admit it does look cool. A bit. And, as luck would have it, the man is striding with purpose, paying no heed at all to his surroundings. Ianto pulls his mobile phone from his pocket- one of the reasons he needs cash, the mobile is an important safety net- and pretends to be texting as he wanders with apparent inattention toward his target.

They collide. Ianto tumbles to the ground with every appearance of having been knocked completely arse-over-teakettle, and as the man offers his hand and pulls Ianto to his feet, Ianto helps himself to the leather billfold in the pocket of the man’s tweed jacket. He feels a little guilty, the man is kind, but this is the only option he has if he wants to eat tonight. Three steps away from the man, and with his back turned, Ianto opens the billfold. It’s best to pull the cash and drop the rest as quickly as possible, not even taking the credit cards; getting caught with one would surely mean a visit with the police and likely a stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

There’s no money inside. No credit cards or ID, nothing but a blank piece of paper. His empty stomach drops; he doesn’t realize he’s come to a stop until he feels a hand on his wrist. He flicks his eyes up to see the man he’s just stolen from.

“What do you see?” the man asks. It’s so far from anything Ianto expected that he blinks in silent confusion. “On the paper, what do you see?”

“Nothing, sir,” he responds, “the page is blank.”

“Indeed. Interesting. Very interesting, yes. And, my dear boy, why is it in your hand? Which is to say, why did you take it?”

“Hungry, sir,” he says quietly. So hungry, and tired, and he almost doesn’t care if this man turns him over, because the police will at least give him a sandwich if they take him in. “Safer to take from you than a store, and I’m not quite hungry enough for whoring. Yet.” To his mortification, his mouth seems to have taken off, leaving him behind. “I’m sorry, sir. Everyone else is wearing an overcoat,” he explains pointlessly.

“Hungry?” the man asks, as if the very idea offends him. “You should have  _said_! Come now, let’s get you a meal, and maybe some soap; you’re filthy and a bit smelly, and we can’t have that, now can we? The Zolarii would come after you, and where would you be? Eaten, that’s where, and that’s, well, it’s not good. What do you fancy?”

Crazy, Ianto thinks. The man is either unbelievably kind, or crazy. Possibly both, but likely not dangerous, and it’s a free meal he’s offering. Ianto looks up with a shy smile and meets the intensity of the man’s gaze for the first time.

Suddenly a flicker of recognition flashes across the man’s face. “Jones?” he asks, “Ianto Jones?”

Ianto has the barest moment to wonder why this man knows his name before he’s dragged across the Plass with a cry of “RUN!”

He has no choice but to follow, though after a few steps the man drops his hand and Ianto keeps up on his own. It’s exhilarating, actually. An adventure to liven his dull existence. “Why are we running?” he asks.

“No time to explain,” the man says. “But it’s very important that you keep up. The world, the universe, depends on it, Ianto Jones!”

Yes, the man is utterly mad, but this is the most fun Ianto’s had in weeks, and maybe he’ll still get a meal out of it. “This way!” he calls somewhat breathlessly as he dodges down an alley. He hopes the man is up for a bit of a scramble, as the narrow space is littered with rubbish, boxes, and addicts. He’s glad he replaced his boots; it would be agony to run like this in the old ones, and there’s a disconcerting squelching noise as he climbs a pile of refuse behind the restaurant where he sometimes picks up a shift. He leaps over a low fence at the end of the corridor, landing somewhat unsteadily in a pile of old rags. The man vaults over behind him, and they dodge around one corner, then another, leading the man through the back streets toward the railway bridge. The man keeps looking back and muttering, “Keep going, keep moving.” Ianto knows he can lose any follower in the warehouse district on the far side of the Roath Dock, he’s done it before after picking the wrong pocket, so that’s where he takes them. Anyway, that’s where his little closet is.

He yanks the man into ‘his’ building, up the metal stairs, across the walkway, then kneels down and quickly picks the lock on the supply room he calls his own. The man follows him in without question. Together, they lean against the wall, breathing hard from their exertions.

“Hell of a chase, young Jones.”

Ianto is reminded of his earlier question: how the hell does this man know his name? He asks as he catches his breath.

The man considers before answering. “It’s complicated. A bit of a long story, actually, and you probably won’t believe me. No one ever seems to believe me, especially when I’m telling the truth. Odd, that.”

“We’re hiding in a closet in a warehouse in Roath. We’re running from something, and you say the fate of the universe is at stake. I think we have time.”

“Nice closet, by the way. Not as roomy as it could be, but it’s awfully clean.”

Ianto is gratified that he noticed. It’s hard to keep the small area tidy, with his meagre possessions neatly stacked and the walls and floor clear of dirt, but the effort helps him keep his self-respect. It’s a raised finger in the face of the encroaching chaos of his life. Still, he sees the compliment for the evasion it is. Looking back, he realizes that the running hadn’t begin until  _after_  the man recognized him. “Tell me how you know me,” he demands.

“Over dinner? You’ve more than earned it by getting me out of a tight spot, and I should think it’s safe by now. In fact, we probably didn’t have to run as much as we did, but it’s good to stretch the legs.”

Ianto nods, bemused. They walk to a nearby pub, avoiding the Millennium Centre area, and settle into a quiet corner, the man with his dainty sandwich and Ianto with his hearty helping of shepherd’s pie. In the beginning, Ianto is too busy filling his aching belly to talk much, but as he starts to feel more sated, he slows down and starts asking questions. The man dances around the issue for a while, but finally seems to come to a decision.

“Time Travel,” he announces.

“Bollocks!”

“No, honestly. See, I told you no one ever believes me when I tell the truth. I could have said ‘psychic’ or ‘we went to the same school’ or ‘I had an affair with your sister’- well, maybe not that last one- but you’d believe any sufficiently banal lie, but the truth? Truth is dangerous and frightening and must be denied immediately.”

“You expect me to believe this rubbish, then?”

“How about aliens. Would you believe aliens, Mr. Jones?”

“Those wrinkled, toothy things? Yeah, everyone on the street knows about them, same as we all know to avoid that flash black Range Rover. They say Torchwood has something to do with aliens, but no one knows much about them other than that.”

“So, aliens yes, time travel no? What are they teaching kids these days?”

“Somehow I must have missed the day they explained the banal lie of aliens.”

“Witty as ever, Mr. Jones. I see why- no, never mind that. How about you just pretend to believe me for a while?”

Ianto shrugs. It’s well worth the meal.

“All right, short version. Torchwood in Cardiff catches alien and alien junk. One of the people there travels in time, as do I. We met a few years ago- longer for him- in the London Blitz, then again in the year 200,100 on Satellite Five. Then he went back and I went forward, and we didn’t meet again until six years from now, which was been five years ago for me, and one hundred forty for him.”

Ianto can’t help but interrupt, “ ‘was been’?”

“Your language is useless for time travel. Where was I? Oh yes. In 2006 we will has met up again, and accidentally went gone to the year one hundred trillion. Then we came back, of course.”

“Of course,” Ianto says weakly.

“Things happened, it’s not important what, but it’s critical that he and I not meet until we already met, or the things must has happened, won’t!”

Ianto has had enough. He musters the most serious expression he can and says sternly, “If you don’t stop talking nonsense right now, I shall have to eat your sandwich, which you’ve not touched.”

The man pushes his plate across the table, saying, “I don’t see what one has to do with the other.”

“It makes at least as much sense as what I'm pretending to believe," says Ianto, picking up the sandwich and taking a large bite. "It's hungry work. Keep going," he says around a mouthful of food.

“Still pretending along with me, then? My Tardis is on the Plass fueling up. There’s a rift in space and time in Cardiff, and that’s the center of it. Rift energy, obviously, is the best power source for a time ship.”

“Obviously.” As the man continues Ianto shifts from pretending to half-hearted belief, if only because it’s a nicer reality than the one he’s used to. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, he thinks, if this man were telling the truth? If there really were rifts and time ships and aliens? If there were a group of people dedicated to  _saving the world_? He tries to picture what it might be like, having a purpose like that. He imagines himself in a  _Men in Black_  style suit running through Cardiff with a gun in his hand and a group of friends at his side. He snorts and reminds himself that even if such a thing  _did_  exist, Ianto Jones, estate trash, could never be a part of it. 

At his snort, the man pauses in his rambling story, and Ianto realizes that he stopped listening a while back. The man looks at him as if expecting an answer.

“Sorry?”

“Lost in thought? Not like you at all Ianto Jones, to lose focus like that. I asked if you’d like to come see my time ship, my Tardis. The Plass should be safe for us now.”

Ianto considers. If he goes with the man, he’ll know the truth. Either there’s a ship on the Plass or there isn’t. Either the world is full of wondrous mystery most people never see, or this man is certifiable. Ianto desperately wants to know. He decides to take a chance, nodding his assent before finishing the sandwich, along with the bag of crisps he hadn’t noticed until that moment.

They walk back to the Plass together, the man telling stories of the worlds he’s seen and the people he’s met. Their route is more direct than the dash they made earlier, but takes nearly twice as long with their more relaxed pace. More than enough time for Ianto to think about all the strange things he’s seen in Cardiff since he’s been living on the streets. Not just the toothy beasts and the black SUV that seemed to go wherever it pleased, but the disappearances. The amnesia- everyone seems to know someone missing at least a few hours. The odd flashes that couldn’t be lightning. The noises and the odd bits of machinery every street rat both hoped and feared to find. Most of the time they could be sold to a fence for more money than Ianto could imagine they were worth, but almost as often, the finder became one of the disappeared or a victim of memory loss. 

When they reach the Plass, the man leads Ianto to a spot near the base of the water tower. He gestures at empty air. “There she is!” he says with a grand flourish

Ianto’s heart falls. “I don’t see anything.”

“Sorry, no, of course you don’t. Stop trying so hard and it’ll be easier. Relax your eyes and look over there, at that red building, but keep me sort of in the corner of your vision.”

He does as he’s told, wondering if it makes him as daft as the man. Just as his eyes begin to lose focus, he sees a blue blob just to his left. It disappears when he whips his head to look at it. He looks away again, and this time when the blue smudge appears, he casually reaches out. His hand connects, and this time when he looks back, he can see it. An old police box? He looks to the man, who is beaming with pride, though Ianto’s not sure if it’s for him or the police box Ianto’s never seen on the Plass in the hundreds of times he’s been here. Ianto raises an eyebrow.

“Timeship?” he asks skeptically.

“Tardis!” exclaims the man. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“It’s- she’s very… blue.” Ianto answers.

“Of  _course_  she is, dear boy. What other colour would she be? Do follow along, it would make no sense at all for her to be yellow or plaid, or, heaven forbid,  _mauve_. Who would ever want to travel in a mauve Tardis? Absurd!”

Ianto nods weakly, which seems to be the theme for the evening, and the box rumbles slightly under his hand.

“She likes you, Ianto Jones. I’d invite you to see inside, but I’m afraid she’d take us off on an adventure, and it’s not your time yet, is it? But see here, I’ll leave you a gift.” The man presses the leather billfold into Ianto’s hand. “Take this to One Canada Square in London.” The man’s face pinches up. Ianto wonders why. “Show it to the man at the desk. He’ll send you where you need to be.”

“It’s blank,” Ianto protests.

“Only to you and me, child. Everyone else will see what you most need them to see; which, in your case when you stole it, was nothing at all. Don’t use it frivolously, it’s not of this world, and may not react well with the rift. Save it for London.”

With that, the man opens the door to the police box and steps in. From where Ianto stands he can see not the interior of a small kiosk, but a large room. The man looks at him expectantly, but Ianto bites back any comment.

“You’re not going to say it, are you?”

Ianto smirks. “I wouldn’t be telling you anything you don’t know, would I?”

“Cheeky, Mr. Jones. You always were.” The man’s face becomes serious. “In case I don’t get a chance, I’m sorry.”

Before Ianto can ask him what he means, the door slides shut and the box (Tardis?) disappears with a worrisome grinding sound. Ianto hopes the time ship isn’t damaged in any way.

He tucks the billfold into the top of his boot, stuffs his hands in his pocket, and strolls away from the Plass. He’s happier than he’s been since he can remember. He’s got a full belly, sure, but it’s more than that. The Tardis felt  _happy_ , and he can’t help but bask in it. And he’s got  _hope_  now. Someday he’ll go to London, use the magic paper. He’ll have a purpose. And who knows? Maybe the man wanted him to be one of those people who saves the world; why else would he have told Ianto about it? He grins. Yes, he’ll go to London, but not yet. He’s not going until he has a suit to wear when he chases aliens. It’s going to take a lot of pockets.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks go to Gmariam for her beta work catching my atrocious typos. The title is a shout out to all the grammar nerds out there.


End file.
